


Never, Never Again

by TheShyArtisan



Category: God of War (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Complete, Gen, God of War: Ascension, Imprisonment, Vaguely Described Violence, Vaguely described abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 20:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20766500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShyArtisan/pseuds/TheShyArtisan
Summary: The first night he screamed.The Furies dragged their prey down into the depths of the Hekatonkheires like an animal to the slaughter and left him there to rot. But Kratos would not go silently.Kratos' first week of imprisonment under the Furies.





	Never, Never Again

**Author's Note:**

> I loved God of War: Ascension, fite me. 
> 
> Wrote some angst detailing Kratos’ first week of capture under the Furies. Short, sweet, and vague. Just the way I like it.

The first night he screamed.

The Furies dragged their prey down into the depths of the Hekatonkheires like an animal to the slaughter and left him there to rot. But Kratos would not go silently. He roared and frothed and cursed and howled, filling the eerie night with the sound of his rage. He struggled and strained against his chains until their links tore and sunk deeply into his skin. He used this pain as a goad and riled himself into a frenzy.

Once, he lunged at the sentries who kept watch over him, catching one off guard and tearing into the unprotected throat with his teeth. The others fell upon him and he earned slashes from their curved blades, adding to the wounds that already littered his body. By early dawn his captors found him hunched over and drenched in blood that was partly his own. He seemed almost feral in the red light of the morning sun. Kratos glared up at them with a defiant snarl--it would take more than chains and swords to break his spirit. He had endured much worse.

The second night they tightened his restraints.

The Furies had the guards secure a heavy collar around his neck and chain it to the floor, forcing him to kneel and look down. Still Kratos pulled against them, fighting to hold his head high. He was Spartan-- despite his captivity, he still had his pride. 

The day before had been unbearably warm and as punishment he was left to bake in the sun. The heat had dried the blood plastered down his front, making his skin feel uncomfortably tight and itchy. They withheld water to add to his discipline, and his throat and tongue began to swell. This was something he was accustomed to: his training for the Spartan army had been far more brutal. He had been molded to take this kind of abuse. Night soon fell and the breeze it brought was a blessing, cooling his head and easing the sting of his injuries. But with the night came the Furies and their constant temptations. They whispered to him, offering his freedom only if he gave himself back to the God of War. Kratos ignored them. He would not make that mistake again.

The third night they withheld food from him.

Starvation was nothing new to him. As a young boy in the draft, he had been conditioned to survive long periods without food. To steal under the cover of night and feed himself without being caught. For in war, one was never certain when his next meal would come. 

But his days in the Spartan army were long behind him. He couldn't remember the last he ate or what it was. After the horrors he suffered that night in the temple of Athena, Kratos ate very little. Sometimes he went days without food, only eating when he found he had no strength left to stand. In the end he slept to stave off the empty gnawing in his stomach. 

The fourth night they beat him.

The Queen of the Furies made herself quite clear: either return to his role and serve faithfully under Ares or stay imprisoned and rot. Kratos spat in her face-- he had made himself quite clear. "Never, never again," he snarled. 

Enraged, the Queen turned away and left him in the care of her sisters. They too tempted him with promises of glory and power, even offered him riches and countless beautiful women if he were to return to their master. Yet he was not stirred and turned down each proposition with a growl and a curse. The sisters no longer attempted to win him over with bribes. They beat him within an inch of his life and left him to bleed alone. He lived to spite them. 

The fifth night he dreamed. 

Kratos dreamed of a life he lost long ago, of a home and a family he had forsaken for power and glory. He dreamed of his beautiful wife and his beloved daughter, of their laughter and their love. These dreams he clung to so tightly --once so pleasant and soothing-- slowly turned into nightmares, influenced by the Furies' hold on him. 

He saw himself charge into the village temple, heard the deadly song of his blades, and felt the blood of the innocent spill upon his hands. He begged and pleaded for the madness to stop, but --despite how much he willed-- he could not stop himself from gutting the ones he had loved so deeply. And it played out over and over and over again. He awoke with a scream and found tears staining his face. He forced himself to watch the sun rise.

The sixth night he struggled. 

He hadn't eaten or drank in some time, and the lack of nourishment --coupled with his wounds-- was beginning to take its toll. He no longer slept, nightmares plagued his rest and he fought to stave off his exhaustion. His body was sore and aching, the beatings he had received left their mark upon him in countless bruises and cuts. His arms and legs were beginning to tremble and he found he could barely lift his head. 

The Furies' visits became more frequent, as did their offers and demands. Even though he was weakening, Kratos still refused each time and was beaten again and again as a result. He didn't scream that night.

The seventh night they broke him.

The Queen held his chin in her hand, stroking his jaw with her thumb. Kratos was barely lucid, looking blearily up at her with dulled eyes. He did not struggle, or curse, or snarl. The fight had gone out from him. Her sisters jeered at him from behind her, reveling in their triumph over the Ghost of Sparta.

She gave her offer one last time.

"Return to your master and we will set you free."

"Never," he whispered, "never again."


End file.
